


We Could be Normal.

by bazemayonnaise (Ninjaninaiii)



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Asexual Relationship, Camping, Domestic Fluff, Families of Choice, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gay dads, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Polyamory, Post-Season/Series 02, Queerplatonic Relationships, Tomas is a teacher AU, because really we deserve it, everyone is still very Catholic and very liberal, with minimal angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 21:40:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13280400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninjaninaiii/pseuds/bazemayonnaise
Summary: Marcus Keane is defrocked from his job as a local Priest. He throws a hissy and starts a café, which he begins to love. He finds fatherhood, he finds partnership, and he discovers kissing. It's great.[It's a coffeeshop AU where Marcus, Peter, Bennett and Tomas discover domestic bliss.]





	We Could be Normal.

**Author's Note:**

> I am not a Catholic. I'm not religious, actually. I've tried to do a good job, but I've probably said something dickish, and if I have, please let me know so I can change it. I also don't know anything about the Scouts. Or America, to be honest. 
> 
> I do know about people who fish garbage out of rivers for SCIENCE though, so I do have that.
> 
> I'm also fumbling my way through my own understanding of Queer Platonic relationships, so obviously, as with all things, this isn't how all QP people feel.  
> There's also a weird line between asexuality and celibacy, but I don't think they have to be mutually exclusive, and I don't think that that's a bad thing. Everything is complicated, but as long as shit's consensual, well, there we go.

3.

Sometimes, waking up several hours before the crack of dawn to get on a ship to go to an island to dredge up garbage isn’t exactly what Peter wants to do with himself. These sometimeses are mostly few and far between, because Peter likes his job and he likes his boat and he likes watching the sun rise, but sometimes, like today, it’s hard not to look out at the sunrise in his rubber wellingtons and his thick jumper and to think,  _ I’m lonely.  _

_ So you shouldn’t have walked out on your date last night _ , Peter says to himself as he lowers a net into the river, procedure so ingrained into his being that he’s pretty much on autopilot.  _ If you’re going to walk out on perfectly nice men, you shouldn’t complain about being alone. _

_ Yes,  _ he tells himself,  _ but he wasn’t perfectly nice, was he? _

_ Oh no? He was handsome, and rich, and he understood the vegan thing and he definitely liked you.  _

_ He wanted sex. _

Peter pulled a rope a little too hard, pulling himself out of the conversation he’d been having with himself. Which wasn’t, of course, a sign of loneliness.

_ He’d wanted sex, and you don’t, so he wasn’t perfect. _

_ He was perfectly nice. _

Peter pressed the button that submerged the net and allowed himself to lean against the cold, hard metal of the control panel for a minute before pulling himself together and getting to work. 

-

He was new to the town, new to the research team, a new hire, with no friends and no relationships and no local place to go get breakfast, so Peter decided to fix at least one of those this morning.

There were a couple of places in town that seemed trendy enough to serve at least one vegan meal, but he’d been casing them out over the last week, and most of them seemed to favour style over substance. He longed for his local back… not back home, because this was home, now, but back in his last town, where they had served his favourite pancakes, the best pies, and a mushroom soup to die for.

_ A’s café  _ was certainly under the radar. Unlike most of the places nearby, it didn’t seem to want to attract tourist attention, more akin to a greasy diner than to the white tiles and glowing lights of a smoothie or froyo place.

At half four on a thursday morning, it was the only place open for breakfast.

The inside was definitely nicer than the outside: warm, lived-in, the café’s logo, (an ‘A’ with a halo and wings), on every surface. It had a weird English-pub-crossed-with-ransacked-church vibe lying over the Typical American Diner aesthetic, but somehow it managed ‘interesting’ without touching gaudy and/or concerning. 

There was a man, behind the counter, polishing glasses. 

When he looked up, he smiled, and Peter’s heart missed a goddamn beat.

“Hello,” the man said, voice deep and freezing Peter in place. “Am I glad I opened early today.”

Peter laughed, as seemed appropriate, and willed himself to go closer to the man. 

“Marcus.” Marcus held out his hand as Peter approached the bar, which Peter shook.

“Peter.”

“Bar okay with you, Peter?”

Peter nodded, because really he was out of his depth and it wasn’t yet five in the morning. And then he yawned. The biggest, deepest yawn he’d yawned in a while. “Sorry,” Peter apologised, slipping into the bar stool and slouching. “It is way too early.”

“I’d say it was almost impressive,” Marcus laughed, “If I wasn’t wondering how shite my conversation skills had become.”

“Oh no, I’m sorry, it certainly wasn’t you.”

“I should hope so,” Marcus said, exuding the mock offense and egotistical charm Peter hadn’t seen since his club-going days. Four in the goddamn morning and Marcus was hotter than the as-of-yet-unrisen sun.

“I’m usually good at this time in the morning,” Peter found himself excusing, “But—”  _ If he’s grossed out, you can just find another café.  _ “I had a date a couple nights ago and the guy dicked me around, so.”

“So?” Marcus said, in a  _ I’m gay and I’m listening _ , way. Leaning in, eyes sympathetic, smile less ego and more encouraging.

“So I’ve decided I’ll be alone forever and I’m going to become an old cat man. Except, you know, probably with fish.” 

“That broken hearted?”

Peter’s lip pulled up as he shrugged.  _ Kind of, yeah. _

“But not, specifically because of him?” Marcus asked.

Peter looked at Marcus, and Marcus looked at Peter, and Peter felt something between them connect, like they understood each other. 

“Okay, help me out with something,” Peter said, feeling as if he was drunkenly confiding with a bartender.

“Hit me.”

“You’re on your third date with someone, and they’re really nice, and you’ve just moved to a place and you don’t have any friends, and you’re, you know, lonely, and the guy’s really hot, and then he asks you why you’re not having sex with him.”

“Bit forward.”

“Right! Yes! Thank you!”

As Peter preened in the validation from the literal stranger, the bell above the door chimed, and Marcus’ attention shifted from Peter. 

“Bennett! Good morning.”

Though he didn’t say it, the man who’d entered looked like he was saying ‘is it’? in reply. The man looked sleek: a businessman, maybe, sharp eyes and a tight expression. Exhausted, but would never say it. He sat a few seats away from Peter, on a stool with a newspaper laid out in front of it.

“Toast?” Marcus asked, and the man nodded before settling himself in, opening the newspaper.

The easy familiarity wasn’t just for Peter, then. 

Marcus put the laminated menu on the table in front of Peter with a ‘take your time’ before pouring Bennett a coffee and shouting “Bennett’s here!” into the kitchen.

“Morning, Bennett!” whoever was in the kitchen shouted back, to which Bennett replied with a “Morning, Mother.”

Feeling like he’d just sat down at a family dinner uninvited, Peter pretended to concentrate on the menu while attempting to work out whether the ‘Mother’ had been literal, a nickname, or capitalised. 

“Marcus, this coffee is terrible.”

“It’s the same coffee as usual, Bennett.”

“Perhaps consider changing your coffee?”

“Perhaps consider changing your order?”

The man, Bennett, rolled his eyes, took another sip of the coffee and went back to reading the newspaper. It looked like an imported one, one of the British ones if their accents were anything to go by. Fine print, very few pictures… certainly not a tabloid. Business, maybe. Bought and prepared by the café, so he must be a regular.

When Peter’s attention flicked back to his own space, Marcus was in front of him, leaning, one elbow on the counter, chin in palm, smiling. 

“Sorry about the noise,” Marcus said, his own eyes glancing at at Bennett. Bennett made a scoffing noise, but Marcus dragged Peter’s attention back to him. “What can I get for you? Apparently our coffee is terrible.”

“I’ll er,” Peter felt himself beginning to fluster, quickly sent himself an order to calm down, and managed to land on his feet. “I’ll try the coffee, see if it’s just a taste thing.” Well, almost on his feet.

“One terrible coffee, coming right up.”

Marcus pulled the jug from where it was being warmed and filled Peter’s mug, then waited, expectantly. 

“You might want to watch this, Benny,” Marcus said, aiming a quick  _ look _ towards Bennett, who refused to look back, “See someone appreciate my hard work for once.”

“You put ground beans in a machine with water,” Bennett muttered. “You’re hardly a Venetian barista.”

A woman, in her late sixties maybe, placed a rack of toast on the counter between the kitchen and the restaurant, and dinged the small service bell next to her.

“ _ You _ don’t think our coffee’s terrible, do you Mother?”

So a nickname, then. 

“It’s terrible,” Mother said back, “but it’s free,” she shrugged, before returning to the kitchen.

“That’s Bernadette,” Marcus told Peter as he handed Bennett the toast. 

“‘Mother’?”

“Ah, ah,” Marcus chided, teasing in his voice. “Now that’s third date kind of talk.”

Peter lit up with his laugh, feeling the last of last last night’s hard feelings drip out of him. 

“Go on, then,” Marcus said, nodding at the coffee mug, “Put us out of our misery.”

Peter adopted the best military-neutral facial expression he could, picked up the mug like a robot designed to test coffee, put the mug to his lips and, in a moment of daring, met Marcus’ eye as he drunk, watching Marcus watch him. 

Peter set down the mug, licked his lips and considered. “It’s not the best coffee I’ve ever had.”

“You’re too kind,” Bennett and Marcus said, simultaneously, in wildly different tones, but incredibly in tune with one another, like a comedy duo with perfect timing. So perfect that it made Peter laugh loudly, genuinely, for the first time in what felt like years.

Marcus was grinning back and, although his face didn’t show it, there was something amused in the hunch of Bennett’s shoulders.

“I’m going to miss my plane,” Bennett said after a moment’s pause, drinking the rest of his coffee in a few last gulps, despite the taste. “I’ll be gone for two weeks,” he told Marcus as he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. 

Then, Bennett stood, and Marcus leaned over the counter, and they kissed.

“Oh,” Peter said involuntarily, feeling like perhaps the most ridiculous human alive. 

And now he was staring as Marcus straightened the shoulders of Bennett’s suit, kissed Bennett’s cheek, pulled away and met Peter’s eye.

Peter felt himself flush. Marcus had been flirting with Peter, that had been sure. Poor fucking Bennett. 

Bennett folded his newspaper into crisp halves, took his briefcase from the foot of his stool, came to stand behind Peter and touched him on the shoulder with the broadsheet. The hand holding the newspaper had a thin, metal band on its ring finger. Married. Married to Marcus, assumedly. 

Bennett leaned closer, and Peter flinched, because really, he was too old to get involved in weird flirting / cheating / husband dynamics.

“The coffee here is shit,” Bennett said into his ear, a stage whisper definitely intended for Marcus, “but that’s not why you’ll keep coming,” Bennett continued, much quieter. 

“Oi, I thought you had a plane to catch,” Marcus was saying, already cleaning away Bennett’s leftovers. “Don’t want to miss it, dear.”

Bennett tapped the newspaper against Peter’s shoulder again before he left, seemingly in just as foul a mood he’d entered with.

Marcus leaned over the bar to wipe the counter with a cloth, thorough despite the laziness. “He pretends to be angry,” Marcus said, his voice revealing the slight stretch his body was doing to reach the furthest part of the bar table. “But he’s one of the most honest people on this planet.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” Peter said, putting down his mug and feeling like he should probably just pay, leave, and maybe move out of the town. “If I had known he was your husband — I didn’t realise that, er, I wouldn’t have...” Peter looked up from his mug to meet Marcus’ eye, and found the man grinning. “What?”

“Oh no, please, don’t let me interrupt.” Marcus folded his arms over his chest, looking highly amused. 

“I’m so sorry if I made Bennett angry, and I’m really not looking to get in between the two of you, and if I’m being totally honest, I’m not too cool with the whole… using me to get on his nerves kind of tactic. Sorry.” Peter looked back at his mug, realised he really did have to move out of the town now, took his wallet out of his jeans, pulled a tenner out and placed it on the bar.

Peter smiled, wishing he was confident enough to say something cool as he left like, ‘I’m not going to let you cheat on an innocent man’ or ‘you’re hot but stupid to let a man like that go’, but he wasn’t confident so instead he said  “keep the change.”

As Peter picked his backpack up from the floor, he watched Marcus take the note with two fingers, as if holding a cigarette, then the mug with his other hand. 

It really was a shame, Peter thought as he donned his jacket. Marcus had lovely hands. Probably did smoke, which was terrible for pretty much every reason, but the mental image of those hands holding a cigarette, lifting them up to those lips...

“Closest fit is ‘queer platonic’.”

Peter paused in the door and looked back, reasonably confused. 

“It’s like friends with benefits.” Marcus smiled, wiping his hands with his dishcloth. “I’ll see you around, Peter.” 

Peter dipped his head in goodbye as he let the door close behind him.

 

2.

“Bit early for Halloween, ain’t it?”

Tomas frowned, then touched his collar in realisation. “Oh no, I am a real Father.”

“Huh,” the man cleaning his table said, then placed a menu in front of him. “Coffee, Father?”

Tomas always bristled at the hint of patronisation men the same age and colour as this man spoke to him with, so he took a moment to calm himself before smiling. “Yes, thank you…”

“Marcus.”

“Thank you, Marcus.”

The café was just off the main street of town, a couple of blocks from the school Tomas worked at — and had to be at in a half hour. Just enough time to eat a quick breakfast while he chose what sermon to read for the morning’s assembly. 

While it was hardly a job fitting for  _ the Mexican Pope _ , Tomas had found the job, teaching at the Catholic school in town, far more fulfilling than his teenage dreams of fame and popularity. He would teach at the elementary, then sermonise and do after-school activities for the Middle and High schools attached. He liked children, loved being able to teach them about respect and compassion. Plus, Luis was able to attend because of him. A free, high-quality education with an elevator system through to High School. It was perfect.

When a mug was placed on the table in front of him, Tomas looked up to find not the arrogant man from before, but a young girl in the uniform of his school. She poured him a coffee with a smile. “Good morning, Father Tomas.”

“Good morning, thank you.” He didn’t recognise her, so she wasn’t in one of his classes, but she seemed vaguely familiar; perhaps from choir or an after school club.

Marcus was back, patting the girl on the head and taking the coffee jug away from her. “Don’t worry about that, ducky, you get to school.”

“I can help for a bit, dad,” the girl said, hopeful, but Marcus urged her towards the door with a hand on her shoulder.

“Go, be educated.”

Marcus watched her leave, then turned back to Tomas. “ _ The  _ Father Tomas. You should have said.”

“ _ The _ ?”

“Got all the kids abuzz, the young mister Ortega, newest young male teacher at school…” Marcus winked. “I’ve heard all about you. Ready to order?”

-

It shouldn’t really have come as a surprise that the older children, on the verge of puberty, no matter how Catholic, might take an interest in him, the youngest member of staff in a place that literally hired old nuns, but it was, and Tomas was rather shaken by the knowledge.

He was comfortable playing big brother to his students, and often-times would so as to make them feel more comfortable — he only hoped that they would not misunderstand his intentions. 

Perhaps that should be the focal message of his next few assemblies. 

Today’s assembly was not his most inspired, but by first period, Tomas had all but forgotten his annoyance at Marcus’ comments.

Hip, young, and with more free time than he admitted to, Tomas had been assigned choir practice — both the hymnal, multi-school group and the more fun (and much bigger,) Glee club. Today was the latter, and as he was preparing print-outs, he saw the girl from the morning. She was attempting a surreptitious glance from behind her long hair, obviously not having the nerves to talk to him if she didn’t have a reason to. He smiled in her direction and her eyes dropped to the floor, so he took the hint and approached. 

“Hello again.”

“Hi.” She was far more removed outside her home turf, it seemed, so Tomas put on his best big-brother smile. 

“What is your name, remind me.”

“I’m Harper.”

_ Harper Keane _ . A flashback to a staff meeting at the beginning of the year. A young girl who had been taken from an abusive family, who had triggers around references to drug abuse and exorcism. 

“Harper, yes, it is nice to meet you.” Tomas held out his hand, which Harper shook. “I have a favour to ask, Harper, would you mind helping me? I promise it will not take long.”

Harper nodded, and Tomas held out the sheets of paper. “I need someone very helpful to give one of these to everyone before we start. Can you do that?”

Harper nodded again, seeming eager to please, and got to work.

_ A great kid _ , Tomas thought. He had heard that Harper had been a recluse at the beginning of the year, not interacting, jumping at shadows. Though Tomas loved his school, he doubted that it was the teachers who had opened her up. His mind spun back to the father, Marcus, and erased some of the negative points he had attributed to the man.

-

Marcus looked up when Tomas opened the door for Harper, and Marcus grinned. “A private escort, ducky, aren’t you lucky.”

Harper ducked her head in a shy nod, then ran through to the back of the café, already removing her backpack and chucking it onto a booth table.

“I teach her Glee club,” Tomas said, a line he had rehearsed since he had found himself walking in the same direction as Harper at the end of practice. 

“I know.” Marcus’ tone was cryptic: teasing, certainly, interested, but wary.

“And she told me that her father’s apple pie was sent from Heaven itself.”

“Oh, really. Bit blasphemous, isn’t it?”

Tomas shrugged, feeling Marcus’ smile warm as he sat himself in the same booth from this morning. “I will have to try it to see.”

Harper ran back from the kitchen with a plate and a spoon, a huge wedge of warm pie in the center. It was an English-style pie, baked in an oblong dish, cinnamon apple at the bottom, crumble on the top, golden and served with “Bird’s custard,” Marcus said, indicating the orange-yellow gloop. “That’s a real taste of school, served lukewarm and still grainy.”

“We make it properly, here,” Harper said quickly, nose scrunching up. “Don’t ask him about the custard, or he’ll tell you about the Midlands for like, half an hour.”

“Oi,” Marcus said, ruffling the girl’s hair. “Homework.”

“But-”

“Homework first, annoying Father Tomas second.”

Harper gave Marcus a pre-pubescent sigh of acknowledgment before trudging off to find her backpack.

“She is a good kid,” Tomas said, watching how Marcus smiled after her.

“Yeah. I’m a lucky man.” Marcus’ attention snapped back to Tomas, then to the pie. “Better eat it before it goes cold. Coffee?”

“Please.”

At the first mouthful of pie, Tomas got the distinct feeling that he was going to have to start running a lot more to keep up with how often he was going to have to eat here.

 

1.

Father Marcus had been the Priest of a town where very little happened. He wasn’t used to the US, but he’d been in trouble for trying to start fights in small vicarages in the UK, so he thought he’d start afresh with the American Dream. 

For about five years, he’d visited the house of a mother and child; the child ill from infancy, the mother desperate for spiritual help. Marcus had been too absorbed in the mind-numbing boringness of suburbia that he hadn’t thought to think deeper about them. 

Then he’d used the mother’s bathroom and saw the LSD, and he’d punched the mother with anger he’d found pent up. Guilt, too. 

When Father Marcus was defrocked, it was Bennett who had delivered the bad news. 

Bennett had made sure Marcus’ assault hadn’t been lodged, legally, written on the record as self-defence. He also managed to get Marcus a house in a town on the other side of the country. He’d also called Marcus a number of names down the phone, voice laden with spite. 

“I’m thinking of starting a café,” Marcus told the floor of the last pew in his (former) church. 

Bennett came out from the doorway he’d been watching Marcus from and sat beside him. “Is that a joke?”

“Not a very funny one.” Marcus held a bottle of whiskey out to Bennett. “Partake?”

“No.”

Marcus put the bottle on the floor and leaned his head against the back of the pew in front. “Devon… what am I going to do?”

“I left the Vatican.”

“A show of solidarity?” Marcus’ voice was part-sarky, part-hatred.

“The church is corrupt.” Marcus felt Bennett lean back against the wood, his posture as ramrod straight as ever. “God isn’t.”

Marcus snorted, and he found it came out sobby. So he was crying drunk, that was good to know.

“Marcus.” Though Bennett didn’t touch him or offer any sort of physical consolation, Bennett’s harsh voice had softened by two or three degrees. Their usual angry banter had been replaced by the voice of a man Marcus had known at the beginning of their friendship: lost and confused and mourning his sister. “You are loved.”

-

Devon Bennett had always been a better businessman than he had been a Priest. He liked his research, he liked putting together portfolios of information, simmered down into a neat, perfunct document. He liked being successful, and in control. 

He had been offered a Bishop position, once, but the thought of dealing with a hundred Marcus Keanes sat uncomfortably with him.

He truly believed that God intended him to support, not to lead.

Which was why, when he had had a meeting with the social worker in charge of Harper’s case, he had flown to the small town Marcus now lived in, found the empty building Marcus was about to turn into a café, knocked on the door and proposed. 

It was a business proposal, really. 

“Bennett!” Marcus had said, looking for all the world like he’d been expecting Devon to show up, music loud on his radio. He’d been painting, and he looked happy. Happier, at least. 

“In order to adopt Harper, Rose Cooper has informed me that the child must be going to a two-person family with a stable occupation. I am looking for a small business investment and so, in exchange for a thirty percent share of the profits of your café, I am willing to cover all costs related to the start-up of the business as a grant, not a loan.” Devon reached into his coat and pulled out a ring-box he had bought before arriving at the airport. It held two simple but well-made metal rings. “I am consenting to a platonic, open relationship in order to beat the corrupt system that prejudices against your adoption of the girl yourself.”

Marcus took the rings from Bennett and inspected them like they might be some sort of joke-gift; the kind that released confetti or paper snakes when you opened it. 

Then he looked at Bennett, giving him the Marcus-brand up-and-down, and burst into a grin. “Yeah, alright.”

What a typical Marcus response. It still made Devon’s heart flutter.

“Can I kiss you, Bennett, or is that not on the cards?”

Devon looked to the floor, then to Marcus’ eyes. He wasn’t teasing.  _ And _ , Devon thought,  _ I think I would like that.  _ “I am comfortable with that.”

“How very Bennett of you,” Marcus said, leaning down to peck him on the lips. 

Devon did like it.

 

3.

Peter googled it in the parking lot. 

_ A queerplatonic (or quasiplatonic) relationship is a relationship that is not romantic but involves a close emotional connection (platonic) beyond what most people consider friendship. The commitment level in a queerplatonic relationship is often considered to be similar to that of a romantic relationship. -wiki.asexuality.org _ .

_ Asexuality.  _ Peter had heard of it before, because, well, science, but he’d spoken at a conference, once, that had been for LGBTQIA+ scientists and he’d seen it around the place. He’d not really been interested, then, more worried about his own talk, and not well-educated enough in the new lingo to know really what the QIA+ stood for. He’d also been a little too intimidated to ask, too, and then he’d missed his opportunity.

He was attracted to men, he knew that. He wasn’t too keen on sex, though he enjoyed it occasionally. He had never been comfortable in a monogamous relationship, but poly had been intense, too.

_ Queerplatonic _ . 

Peter could imagine himself sitting at the bar each morning, grabbing breakfast as the sun warmed his back. Could smell the coffee and the sweet smell of blueberry pancakes. Could imagine sitting beside Bennett and getting to know all of their inside jokes, hear their banter, hear what should have been hatred but was actually affection. Could imagine kissing, and being kissed by, both.

Peter wiped a hand over his face. 

_ Or maybe you’re lonely and suggestible and you have to go to work. _

Peter had a project to work on, and he couldn’t let his complicated not-love-life distract him. 

-

It felt almost… unfaithful for Peter to go to Marcus’ café while he knew that Bennett wasn’t there, but equally, waiting for two weeks seemed like a daunting task. He just wanted information. And he just wanted to make some friends. And grab breakfast. He didn’t want to ruin a marriage, and if it looked like Marcus was that kind of guy, Peter would cut loose and run. Maybe take Bennett with him.

Peter wasn’t the first in the café the next morning; there were a couple of sailors at a table, digging in to a huge cooked breakfast. It eased Peter’s mind a little, at least he wouldn’t be Marcus’ sole source of attention.

Peter picked out a table for two halfway between the fishermen and the counter, a safe distance to have a private conversation, but not too isolated. 

“Morning.” Marcus, in an oversized pink jumper and comfortable mom-jeans under a bright green apron. Peter couldn’t help but be charmed. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

“Think you’ll eat something today?” Marcus waved a laminated menu before Peter, and Peter nodded, not having liked skipping yesterday. 

“You wouldn’t happen to have anything vegan?”

“Please tell me you’re not a rock climber.”

“A what? No, not that I know of.”

“Fucking rock climbers,” Marcus said, putting the menu on the table like a reward. “Vegan stuff on the side.”

“What happened with the rock climbers?”

“Everything shitty you can imagine, they’ve done. If not here, at one of the other places along the street. You can usually tell if they’re a vegan.” 

“Well, I’m sorry they’ve given us vegans a bad name.”

“I’ll try not to hold it against you,” Marcus said with a smile. “I’d try the waffles if you’re a sweets guy, or refried beans if you’re salt.”

Marcus smiled, then went to top up the fishermen’s mugs.

Despite the rock climbers, there were at least ten vegan options on the breakfast menu, from scrambled tofu to granola to pancakes with every topping or filling imaginable. For a small place in a small town, it was cheap, too. 

Bennett had to be making big money to get good quality food like this out here for such cheap prices. 

_ Pancakes, _ Peter thought, a bit of nostalgia biasing his decision. If this place made pancakes anywhere near as good as his favourite place, he’d be sold.  _ Strawberry cream cheese pancakes.  _

“Made a decision?” Marcus said on his way back.

“Oh, yeah. Strawberry cream cheese pancakes. It has to be them.”

“Sweet tooth, huh.”

“I’ve been craving these since I was a kid, don’t judge for making my dreams come true.”

“Strict parents?”

“Dentist parents.”

Marcus grinned. “Anything else?”

“Unless you’ve got a vegan chocolate river somewhere, I’m afraid these’ll have to do.” He handed the menu back and received an ‘I wish’ in return.

As Marcus went to the kitchen to call out the order, Peter brought out his field notebook. The same thing as the rest of the week, cast a net, dredge up some garbage, catalogue the results. He could fill out some preliminary boxes now, save the effort later. His name, the date, the location he’d be at, which he’d confirm later.

“So you’re not a rock climber,” Marcus said from beside him, half-sat on the table beside Peter’s and making Peter jump. 

“Nope.”

“And you’ve just moved here.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re not a fisherman.”

“Well, a glorified one, maybe.” When this stumped Marcus, Peter fished his badge from his jeans pocket and handed it over. “Scientist.”

“Government official.”

“Technically. You don’t seem too pleased.”

“Not had too many great conversations with government officials.”

“Well, trust me, I’m probably the least official government person you could ever meet. I fish garbage out of rivers to see if humans are ruining the planet. Spoiler alert,” Peter said, taking his badge back, “we are.”

“You’re right, that isn’t very government official of you.” 

“Climate change scientist tries to prove science is real in Catholic town.” Peter sighed. “In the Trump administration.”

A half second too late, Peter remembered the name of the café, bit his lip and looked up with a preemptory wince. “You’re Catholic, aren’t you.”

“About as Catholic as they get,” Marcus said, though thankfully with humour in his voice. “Until about two years ago, I was on track for Bishop-hood.”

“Wow, yeah, that is pretty Catholic.”

“Bennett worked for the Vatican for about ten years,” Marcus said, raising two fingers, then a third when he said “our daughter goes to a Catholic school…”

“And you’ve met the Pope?”

“Saved the Pope’s life, once.”

Peter nodded, feeling his smile strain on his face. “Yeah, so, maybe the most Catholic person I’ve ever met, so that’s great.”

“Met the Queen, too, if that gives you a nice, round image of me.” 

There was a ding from the kitchen and Marcus lifted himself from the table. “Childhood dreams await.”

Peter resigned himself to his embarrassment as Marcus went to grab the food. At least he hadn’t outright compared the Catholics to Trump, only hinted at their connection. And he hadn’t blasphemed, as far as he knew. 

With Marcus’ return came a waft of strawberry and sugar; a stack of American pancakes drenched in strawberry puree and latticed with white, (fake) cream cheese icing. 

“I might cry,” Peter said as Marcus put them down in front of him with a knife and a fork. “Sorry, I have to send a photo to my mom.” 

“I’ll tell the chef. She was glad she finally got to use that fake cheese shit. She’s pretty proud of how the pancakes came out, too.”

“Compliments to her,” Peter said, taking a photo and sending it to his family’s group chat. They weren’t awake, yet, but he’d have to cry over the pancakes with them later. “Right,” he said after it’d sent, “I’m going in.”

Marcus took up position against the table again and watched as Peter took a huge chunk of pancake stack and wiped it around in syrup. 

Peter finished the pancakes almost in a daze of happiness. They were incredible, and exactly what the twelve-year-old in him had dreamed of for forty-odd years.

He didn’t know how he was going to stay away from the place, now.

-

“So, you used to be a Priest,” Peter asked the next morning, already having ordered the blueberry waffles. He took a sip of the coffee and willed himself to swallow it, despite the bitterness.

There was a pause as he drunk, before Marcus said, “You can have a cappuccino or something, you don’t have to force yourself to drink the black coffee.”

Peter willed himself to like the black coffee, hating having to ask about vegan options. 

“I have soy or almond milk.”

Of course he did. 

“Soy, please, cappuccino.” 

By the time Marcus had come back with the coffee, he’d managed to change the subject.

 

2.

When it came to sexual health class, Tomas petitioned the nuns to understand that knowledge was key to consent, and was given permission to give classes at his discretion. 

Tomas had never said it out loud before: not to his parents, to his sister, to a friend or a housemate, but as he sat in a class of High School children, Tomas decided it needed to be said. 

“I am bisexual. Being gay, and being Catholic, are not antitheses. So long as your relations remain healthy and consensual, sexual relations are to be respected.” Tomas endeavoured to look around the class but, with a mixture of understandable embarrassment at being in the class and, perhaps, shame, and hope, and confusion, not many looked back. 

Katherine Rance looked back, as did Verity Kim. Then they looked at each other, and then they looked to the ground.  _ Interesting _ . 

Tomas talked to them about contraceptives, about asexuality, about the pill and about being trans, but without much experience in those, he directed them to a website that explained them better. 

The next day, Tomas found a home-made pin-badge on his desk. Pink, purple, blue. The bisexual flag. There was no note, but Tomas had seen a similar one on Verity’s jacket. He smiled and, in an act of courage, pinned it to his satchel. Practise what you preach.

-

As time went by, Tomas did, indeed, make his way to Marcus’ diner more often. He would come for breakfast nearly every morning and, by law of frequency, eventually met Father Bennett, Harper’s other father.

Tomas had had to admit he had been taken aback to see that they were married, but could understand why.

Though Marcus spent most of his time antagonising Bennett, Bennett provoked him, and seemed to enjoy the battle as they quarrelled and disagreed and rolled their eyes and kissed and bit and smiled. 

Tomas, eventually, was roped into their arguments, and though he did not have the English sarcasm, he had the Spanish speed, and could, on occasion, outwit the both of them. They both spoke tolerable Spanish, enough that they could understand a, as his kids called it, savage burn, and it would be those days that he would order an apple pie, riding off of the hard-won success.

-

Sometimes, Tomas would have a crisis of faith. Usually when something happened to a child, or to a family member. God had a plan, he had to tell himself, God tested us. 

One of the children in school came to him in confession and told him that they had been abused by their parent.

God had a plan. God tested us. 

Marcus’ usual grin dropped as soon as he saw Marcus’ face. Harper was already home, a child-sized apron draped around her as she served coffee and iced teas to customers. Marcus hired a couple of the teenagers from the high school as part-timers in the afternoons- Tomas had recognised Casey Rance, Verity Kim and and couple of her younger brothers from time to time. He had hopes that in a few years, Luis might work here, too. 

Harper let Tomas pick his own table as was custom, now, and Marcus put a coffee in front of him before he’d even sat down. 

“Pie?”

Tomas shook his head, but wrapped his hands around the mug.

Marcus stood beside the booth for a moment, then rested his hand on the top of Tomas’ head, thumb smoothing small circles. A few months ago, Tomas might have found it patronising. Now, he found it calming. 

“Take your time,” Marcus said, then left to go take someone’s order.

-

Tomas stayed until after the restaurant closed, his Bible open beside him. He’d been trying to read as far as he could from the beginning of the New Testament, but had only got a few pages in, mind dragging him back to confession.

He’d had to go speak to the police, then had had his statement taken. He knew the student quite well, yes, no, he had never suspected. He should have. He should have noticed something.

He wished God had shown him some sign. Had helped him help the child sooner.

He wanted to rip the pages from his Bible.

“Here.” Marcus dropped a heavy, black Bible beside Tomas’, flipping through it to show the defaced pages. “If you want to rip a page or two, I don’t mind.”

“What is this?” Tomas asked, bringing Marcus’ Bible towards him. 

“A couple of editorials. Comments, corrections, that sort of thing.”

Tomas stopped on a page covered in the outline of a large tree. He traced the lines of the branches, etched into the page, hard. Someone angry at God.

“Bet you just thought the words ‘defaced’ and ‘angry at God.’”

Tomas nodded, still mesmerised by the tree. 

“Did that to remember my mum. It’s this forest in England where she took me for walkies. Pretty much the only thing she was good for.”

Tomas let his breath out slowly, feeling tears prick at his eyes. “How can God allow parents to mistreat their children?”

Marcus’ own sigh echoed Tomas’, then he was kneeling before Tomas on the floor, hands on Tomas’ neck, bringing their foreheads together.

“I don’t know.” Marcus’ thumbs rubbed at the hairs at the nape of Tomas’ neck, gripping him tight, keeping him grounded. “I don’t think we ever will. I’ve met humans more capable of evil than demons; whose reasons are un-understandable. Horrific, terrible actions that should not be imagined. God tests us, yes, and God has a plan, but Jesus walked amongst us to absorb some of the hardship, some of the suffering. And if you or I can act as Jesus did, walking amongst the suffering and leading with compassion, maybe the world can be that little bit better.”

“I couldn’t save them,” Tomas said, voice a cracked whisper, feeling nothing but Marcus’ forehead against his own, Marcus’ calloused fingers on his neck, Marcus’ breath on his cheek. “I did not see the signs.”

Marcus took a deep breath, then breathed out. Measured. Tomas copied him, until they were breathing together.

“Lord Jesus, we ask you to give us all around peace in our mind, body, soul and spirit. Please guide our path through life and make our enemies be at peace with us. Let your peace reign in our family, and everything we lay our hands on. Let your angels of peace go ahead of us when we go out and stay by our side when we return. In Jesus' name, Amen.”

“Amen,” Tomas said in response, tears beginning to slow. 

“My knee’s never going to recover from this,” Marcus said, pulling back from Tomas’ space slowly, and surprising Tomas into a laugh. 

Marcus made exaggerated groans of pain as he stood, sounding like a man double his age. 

“I thank you for your pains, grandfather.”

“Oi,” Marcus warned, “I’m allowed to say it, you’re not.” Once up, he cupped the back of Tomas’ head, and pulled him into a half-hug. “I’m not good for much, but you can talk to me. Or not talk to me.”

Tomas felt the tears begin to well up again, but he stemmed them by hugging back, burying his face in Marcus’ oversized pink jumper. 

“Rubbing your snotty nose in my jumper?”

“Yes.”

Marcus chuckled, pat Tomas on the head and asked “pie?”

“Yes.”

-

 

1.

Mouse and Bennett first met because they both hated Marcus Keane. Though both were the practical sort, they both (individually) had the thought that, were they teenagers in an American film, they might have started the Marcus Keane hate club. But they weren’t, and they did both love Marcus, and then one of them married Marcus, and the other realised she was a women-leaning-bisexual who  _ had  _ really loved Marcus’ long hair and cockiness.

It had been a long story.

They decided (again, individually, but also once while drunk,) that had they not had their inclinations, they would have made a fine power-couple: the kind that got shit done and destroyed the unjust.

Which was how Mouse had decided that instead of moping after their mutually appreciated, just-sanctified priest, they should get into corporate espionage.

Mouse quit being a nun, and studied law.

Bennett continued into Fatherhood, but followed the business, followed the money.

They became a tag-team, essentially committing small-time heists to make corrupt business people reveal their plans to the authorities.

Bennett, with his penchant for mercy and with the Vatican behind him, could never take a step wrong with most of their clients. Mouse… Mouse was good at running away.

By the time Bennett married Marcus and had, technically, adopted Harper, he no-longer needed the Vatican as a cover. He had a great photograph that he liked to use as his phone’s lock screen: the three of them at the beach, Harper taking a selfie with her two fathers behind her. A rare photo of Marcus’ widest, most content smile. Even rarer, Bennett smiling back.

A family man! Honest, Catholic, Father, father, gay, unsuspicious. 

“So tell me again,” Mouse said as she tipped the contents of a tent kit onto the ground, “Why, exactly, am I here?”

Bennett looked around the campsite, at the dozens of kids in their matching, sand-coloured uniforms, at their tents, and their fire pits and their picnic tables and wondered the exact same thing. 

It had been such a slow process, it wasn’t until now that the thought had really formed in his mind.

Devon Bennett, known-hater of the outdoors, had been convinced by his husband to become the pack leader of his daughter’s scout club because he (and his business partner) had been between jobs, and the scout club needed to fill a maternity leave. Two maternity leaves. And scouts, it seemed, went camping. Devon Bennett had never  _ been  _ camping. Mouse had never been camping, either, though she  _ had  _ backpacked across the globe for a decade in between being a nun and being a corporate spy, so she did have that against Bennett.

“I hate camping,” a kid standing beside Harper (who was stood beside Bennett) told the kid the other side of her. He had the same expression Bennett believed he was wearing: the patented I’m-not-sure-how-I-got-here-and-I-dislike-it. 

-

“And he’s going on maternity leave, which he knew about forever because he and his husband have been planning it for years and years,” Harper said, pancake hamstered into one cheek as she talked, “but then Delia, who’s our other leader, found out that she’s pregnant too, and now they’re both pregnant and then in two months we won’t have any scouts!”

Bennett had put down his newspaper as Harper had begun talking (he had always abhorred how his father would never put down the newspaper when he had tried to talk,) but even with his full attention, he wasn’t entirely sure what the girl was trying to say. She looked expectant, though, so he assumed he had meant to understand  _ something.  _

“Was there a question in there, somewhere?” Had he been talking to Marcus (who went on similar rants,) Bennett’s tone would have been several shades icier, but to Harper, he kept his expression as he felt: bemused.

Even so, she seemed discouraged, which hurt Bennett.

“It’s just that…” Harper put down her fork, hands wringing in her lap instead. “You told Dad that you and Auntie Mouse didn’t have a job lined up after April, and I know it’s not really business like you usually do, but it kind of is? You get to run a thing, and I think you would be really good at knowing all of the rules and telling everyone what to do, and…” 

Harper caught herself from continuing, which Bennett recognised, again, from his own childhood. Stopping yourself from displeasing your father by not saying how you truly feel. Bennett took Harper’s hands from her lap and clasped them between his own. He took a breath.

“I know that I’m not around very often, and that Marcus is more your dad than I will ever be, but you can tell me anything, Harper, and I will try to help you. The best that I can.”

Bennett could see Marcus watching them from the bar, could see himself through Marcus’ eyes, treating his daughter like a stranger at confession. Bennett dropped Harper’s hands and opened his arms, slightly, inviting. 

Harper hugged him, tight around his waist. Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet, as if trying not to scare away a frightened animal. “I want you around more. Just for a little bit. Just while they’re on maternity leave?”

Slowly, Bennett placed a hand on Harper’s head, the other on her back. He closed his eyes, and tried not to melt from the inside, out.

“I’ll consider it.”

-

Harper had been drained by the emotion, and fell asleep in the booth. 

“She’s been wanting to ask you for a fortnight,” Marcus said, coming to take away the half-finished plate of pancake and Bennett’s coffee mug. 

“She could have called.”

“She could have,” Marcus agreed, adding a silent ‘but then you wouldn’t have hugged her.’

Bennett stood, gathering his things.

“Stay a bit, Devon. Go on, it won’t hurt you to relax for an hour.” Though Marcus’ words were common enough, trying to get Bennett to relax through their studies, through their ordeals, his tone was that of the new Marcus: Marcus the small business owner in a small town. Marcus the father, the parent, the husband who had not seen his partner for nearly two months. It was a new Marcus. Or, more accurately, a more comfortable to be Marcus, Marcus.

It wasn’t bad, just new. Harder to fight.

Bennett bent and picked up Harper; slightly too big now to be carried like a babe, but light enough.

Bennett made the mistake of glancing at Marcus, who was watching with unabashed love.

“Still work out, grandpa?” 

Bennett sighed, making a show of how easy it was to lift the weight, and took the girl upstairs to bed. He tucked her in, smoothing the hair out of her face and making sure her stuffed toy was within reach and felt a wash of fatherhood come over him. He still did not really understand her, and was not around very much, but, he thought, he loved her.

By the time Bennett came back downstairs, the sun had set and Marcus had begun closing up. He saw Mother Bernadette through the window, walking through the carpark towards the bus. 

“Dinner?” Marcus was stood in the kitchen, leaning out through the window between them. He was holding a box of eggs and a carrot. “Not really sure what I’m making yet, but it could be fun.”

Bennett checked his watch. Too late to start another job now. He made his way through to the kitchen, grabbing his briefcase as he came. 

“Need help?”

“When I know what I’m making, I’ll let you know.”

Marcus had brought his music player in, and was playing his usual stuff: nostalgic love songs, powerful and melancholy. 

Bennett cleared himself an area of table, removed his laptop and took the due diligence books from where they were stored, copying the fridge temperatures and wastage records from the paper copies onto his excel document.

“Very romantic, that.”

“Would you rather do it yourself?”

Marcus hummed a no, cracking eggs into a large bowl. 

A kitchen was, Bennett realised, not a conducive working environment. He was distracted, rather easily, each time Marcus begun a new step; whisking the eggs, slicing a potato into thin rounds, grating the carrot… 

“Do you have the profit/loss figures?”

“Off the top of my head?” Marcus begun layering potatoes into a frying pan. “Nope.”

_ So why did you say it?  _

Marcus tapped his hip with his elbow, pointing at his mobile. “Sticky fingers.”

Bennett approached as he might a trap, keeping a wary eye on the sticky fingers. A young Marcus wouldn’t hesitate to turn and smear egg over Bennett’s face.

As it was, Marcus did not move as Bennett removed the phone, letting Bennett return to his laptop before he begun layering potato and egg again.

Marcus had the same lock screen photo. Bennett’s fingerprint unlocked Marcus’ phone. 

“How would you say the restaurant was faring?”

“Are you my investor or my husband?”

“Investor.”

“Oh, brilliantly.”

“Husband.”

“Not brilliantly.”

“Right.” Bennett huffed as he went through the figures. They weren’t losing, but they weren’t making much either. Their wastage list showed a lot of missing payments. “We’d be doing better if you didn’t give away so many meals.”

“Would you like me to quote a Bible verse at you? The wealthy are wicked and we should give to the poor, etcetera, etcetera?”

_ Some of these aren’t to those who cannot afford it _ , Bennett didn’t say. Nevertheless, Marcus picked up on it, as he always did.

“Do we need to talk?” Marcus wiped his hands on the towel attached to his apron, turned off the heat and focused on Bennett. “I won’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable, Bennett.”

_ You married me for the child, and for the money. _

It was Bennett’s own fault; he had set it out as a business proposal. But he just wasn’t like Marcus. He did not flirt, he did not reveal his feelings. He would wait, and watch, and respond as was appropriate.

“They like you,” Marcus said, hanging meaning onto the words. “Peter, definitely. Tomas… I don’t think he knows what he wants, yet.”

Peter was calm, and nice. A lot nicer than either Marcus or Bennett. He did not respond to their escalations, didn’t urge them to fight. He was a good companion.

Bennett considered it. He didn’t think these were feelings of jealousy, just uneasiness about a new situation. 

Sensing Bennett’s meditation, Marcus turned back to the pan and began cooking again, allowing Bennett the space to think. Nothing hot-headed, no goading or taunting or teasing. He hummed as he cooked, and again, Bennett was watching him. 

“Harper wants you to be the Scout Leader,” Bennett said, typing numbers into the laptop. 

“Is that what she said?”

“It was implied.”

“Uhuh… I thought she said she wanted you and Aunt Mousey.”

“Yes, to get back at you for something, no doubt.”

“Benny-”

“Don’t call me that.”

Marcus turned the heat to a low burn and went to wash his hands. “You’re reading too much into it,  _ Darlin’ _ . She likes you.” 

“Right.”

Marcus dried his hands as he came back, and stood beside Bennett, back towards the counter. He leaned into Bennett, their arms just touching. “She does.”

“You needn’t lie to save my feelings, Marcus.”

“Me, lie? For you? Bugger off.” Marcus leaned into Bennett a little further, then, when Bennett didn’t move away, Marcus rested his head against Bennett’s shoulder. “Mouse says you’re keeping low until summer?”

“Last job was pretty serious. The Vatican’s not happy.”

“Does that mean you’re homeless?”

“I’ve got a place in DC.”

“Would you stay if I said it would help you lay low, to pretend like you’ve settled?”

Bennett saved the document a couple of times, just to make sure, then closed the lid of the laptop. He shrugged the shoulder Marcus was leaning against to get him to move off, then turned so they were facing the same direction. 

Marcus shifted along so that he was in front of Bennett, and hugged him, chin over Bennett’s shoulder, hands on the back of Bennett’s black shirt, indistinguishable from all of his other black shirts. 

“Marcus.”

Marcus ran a hand over Bennett’s back, Bennett flinching every few inches.

“You’ve been in a fight.”

“Like I say, the Vatican’s not happy.”

“Bruised or cut?”

Bennett stayed silent.

Marcus sighed into Bennett’s shoulder, held him tighter for a moment before letting go and pulling the first-aid box from under one of the counters. It was a lot more well-stocked than the usual kit, and he handed it to Bennett. “I’ll bring the food up when it’s ready.”

-

Bennett sat on Marcus’ bed, back to Marcus while the other man dabbed cloth in antiseptic and touched it to his wounds. As Marcus worked, he touched scars along Bennett’s back, some stitched within the last few hours, others stitched by Marcus when they’d first got into a bar fight. They’d both been sober, and they’d both suffered deep cuts. Bennett wasn’t sure what it was they’d been fighting over. Some Bible passage, probably. 

Marcus touched his most recent one, still stinging. Bennett endeavoured not to suck in his breath, and occupied himself with the tortilla española Marcus had made. It was slightly under seasoned, but decently cooked. Still hot, Bennett masked an amusing thought as a blow of hot air.

“Wish to share the joke with the class, Devon?”

Devon pictured the angry, fresh-from-the-Midlands lad he’d known as a teenager, lanky and willing to punch his way through an argument. Blowing off steam, trying to forget a hard past, trying to prove himself. 

“You’ve become a househusband.”

Bennett didn’t need to glance behind him to know that Marcus was smiling. 

When Bennett had finished his food, he put the plate onto the bed and meditated, Marcus still working his way through cuts. “Thank you,” he said after a while.

“For what?”

Bennett thought about it for a second. “For not putting egg on my face.”

 

3.

Peter could see the car as he pulled up at the docks. Black, and shiny, and far too immaculate to belong to anyone in the town but one person. As Peter got out of his car, so did Bennett, in his usual black shirt, black cardigan and black coat. 

“Can I take a stab at your favourite colour?” Peter called as he unloaded his kit from the back of his car.

“It made more sense when I had a collar,” Bennett replied, coming and helping Peter remove a box.

“Ah, yes, an ex-priest too, Marcus said.”

“I’ve not been excommunicated,” Bennett said, hitching equipment over his shoulder, and following Peter as he walked to his boat. “Marcus has.”

“Quit versus fired?”

“Quit versus fired.”

“Makes sense.” Peter took the equipment from Bennett and loaded his boat. “Sorry, did I miss a memo?”

“I was wondering if we could talk.” Bennett stood an appropriate distance away from the boat, face as impassive as usual, hands in his coat pockets. He looked completely out of place on the dock, coils of seaweed-covered rope and the stench of fish everywhere. 

“Oh, phew, I thought you were going to threaten to tamper with my boat,” Peter laughed, thinking about the action film he’d watched last night, where a rogue FBI agent had nearly drowned the man who’d been sleeping with his wife. “‘Stay away from my husband!’,” Peter said in a jokey film-star voice. It fell kind of flat when Peter’s voice cracked.

“Are you scared of me?”

“I’ll be honest, I’m a little intimidated.”

“Good.” Bennett kept Peter’s eye for a long moment, and Peter gulped. This was how he was going to die, killed by a cute café owner’s hot FBI black-ops husband. Bennett’s expression cracked; not smiling, per-say, but losing its intensity. “I think Marcus has finally worn off on me. Sorry, I hadn’t intended to intimidate you. I am just here to talk.”

Peter felt himself go weak-kneed with relief. “What do you even do, Bennett, you have a terrifying game-face.”

“Corporate espionage.”

Peter squinted at Bennett, but could not longer tell if he was joking. It supported the secret-super-spy idea, anyway, and Peter was enjoying that story too much to pop the illusion. “Are you coming aboard? I’ll be out on the river for a couple of hours, but it should be pretty calm if you want to talk there.”

“Perfect,” Bennett said with a small nod and, if Peter wasn’t hearing things, he added ‘nowhere to run’.

-

They had both been in Kosovo, they discovered. Bennett had been there as part of a Red Cross mission, handing out food and supplies. They didn’t linger on the subject long, but they could tell that they dealt with pain similarly: quietly, through conversation. 

“I take it Marcus isn’t the same.” Peter was stood, letting Bennett take the only chair on the deck.

Bennett took a moment to consider. His instant reaction was to scoff. “The thought of Marcus working through his problems like a rational adult used to be ridiculous. But now...”

“Excommunication?”

“Excommunication, Harper, the café, the locals. A family. Normalcy.” 

“You.”

“As I’m sure you’ve gathered, we’re anything but ‘normal’.”

“Sure,” Peter admitted, “Not if you use words like ‘queerplatonic’ and ‘asexual’ in a small American town. But you seem to know one-another, care about each other. And family… family isn’t always blood and rings and laws, as I’m sure you know. You do have something normal: you have family, and you have the love within you to share it. That means something to me, even if the words don’t, yet.”

“Do you want to share it too?”

Peter had never believed in beating around the bush. Even more so after learning how quickly the world could take the things you cared about from you.

“Yes.”

The river was quiet; no wind to rock the boat, only the sound of quiet laps against the not-so-distant shore and the occasional bird overhead to break the silence.

They stayed out on the water long after Peter promised they would return to shore, Bennett working, Peter occupied by his work. Sometimes he would ask for Bennett’s help in trying to identify a piece of garbage, sometimes he would point out a bird, nesting on the bank, or a particularly coloured fish in the water. Mostly, they were silent, and at peace.

“Marcus would like this,” Bennett said at one point, after a lunch Bennett had packed in advance. 

Peter didn’t reply, but he smiled at the thought. It would probably be wildly different; he couldn’t imagine Marcus sitting quietly for hours on end, but different was good too. 

As the sun began the set, Peter stood beside the sitting Bennett, and they watched the sky turn beautiful shades of orange.

“The sunset in Rome is beautiful,” Bennett said into the quiet. “The amount of black soot in the air makes the sky a deep red.”

“Yeah?” Peter said, a familiar pang of human-related anger mixing, as always, with the beauty of nature despite it. “Never been.”

“Maybe we’ll go one day.”

Peter turned to Bennett, and waited until Bennett looked up. He touched a finger to Bennett’s cheek, Bennett’s  _ nowhere to run _ ringing in his head. But Bennett leaned into the touch, and when Peter bent to kiss him, Bennett met him halfway.

-

When they arrived back at the café, Peter begun preparing himself for perhaps the most awkward end-of-date he’d lived in his entire life. Dropping his date off at his husband’s house, who he was also, if he had got things right, now also dating.

And, they were in seperate cars, which meant that Peter had to debate with himself about whether he was supposed to get out and escort Bennett to the door.

There were lights on in the café window despite the closed sign, which didn’t help Peter much. If it was open, he could always say that he didn’t have anything in the fridge for dinner.

Bennett knocked on Peter’s car window, startling him. Bennett was texting, not even looking at Peter any more. Well, that took care of that, at least. He rolled down his window, and prepared to be let down for being the single most awkward human on the planet. 

“Marcus made dinner, if you want to come in. Quote: ‘it’s vegan, so you’d better’.” 

-

The café lights were off as they entered, the only light spilling from the kitchen, and from the actual lit candles on one of the tables in the middle. 

A round table, there were three places set in a mock fine-dining way, with several spoons and forks of different sizes around a large and small plate. Beside each plate was a plastic ice-tea cup, complete with plastic straw.

“This is a bit… expectant of you. Should I have played a little harder to get?”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

Peter’s grin hurt the muscles in his face. 

“Have you seen  _ Moonlight _ ?” A disembodied voice from the kitchen called out, accompanying cooking-sounds trailing it. 

Peter turned to Bennett, who was taking a seat and looking far less charmed by the set-up. “If it’s a film, he’s talking to you.”

“Oh, uh, no, sorry!” Peter called back. He wasn’t much of a films guy, other than the classics. And Disney, obviously. 

“Typical,” Marcus said, bringing out a tray of food, and setting down a portion on each plate. “Not worth the bloody effort.”

“Sorry?” Peter offered, though he was currently enamoured by what smelled like baked chicken, beans and rice. He was assuming the chicken was a tofu substitute, and it looked incredible. 

“We’ll just have to watch it later.” Marcus chucked the tray onto another table and sat, lifting a bottle of wine from the floor. 

“Devon?” Marcus looked to Bennett, who shook his head, and poured himself a water instead.

“Devon?”

“My Christian name.”

Peter looked to Marcus. “You call your husband by his surname?”

“Out of all the things,” Marcus said, “That’s the thing you’re confused over?”

“I’ve been Bennett since I was a child,” Bennett explained. “Brother Bennett, Father Bennett. Devon has never felt like it was mine.”

“Okay, that makes sense.” Peter turned to Marcus. “So you were…”

“Father Marcus, yeah, and there’s this other chap called Father Tomas, you’ll meet him eventually.” Marcus mimed filling Peter’s glass, and he nodded, accepting the wine.

“Sure,” Peter said, choosing just not to understand. “Catholics are weird, I get it.”

“Right, eat, I suffered over a hot stove for this, least you could do is eat it while it’s hot.”

Through Marcus’ ego-laden bravado, Peter heard the tell-tale voice of a person anxious about what they’ve cooked. A strange tone for a café worker, admittedly, but not strange for someone on a first date?

For such a simple meal: rice, beans, ‘chicken’, onion, it was delicious, and Peter made no motion to hide his appreciation for it. It tasted like it had love in it. “If you cook like this, you have no excuse for your coffee,” he said, which made Bennett choke on the mouthful he had just taken.

Marcus, obviously gleaming from the praise but not wanting to push it, tucked in himself. “Right then, what did I miss?”

“I was just telling Bennett,” Peter said, “That I’m starting to feel a little easy. You make an annoyingly good tag-team.”

“That is good to know,” Marcus said, “Much easier for us old folk, use one to charm in the morning, one to charm in the evening.”

“Bit unfair on me, caught between the two of you!”

“And yet, you’re still standing,” Bennett said, before taking a much more dignified bite of his meal, and raising the temperature of the room by several degrees.

-

Neither Marcus nor Peter touched their wine through the meal, Peter contenting himself with the company as a natural high. He laughed, loudly, until he remembered they had a daughter. Sensing, as Bennett seemed to do, Peter’s sudden restraint, he assured Peter that Harper was at a friend’s for a sleepover. 

The same friend, Verity, who’d told Marcus to watch  _ Moonlight _ , coincidentally. 

After Bennett’s comment before, and now this one, Peter started really thinking about how he wanted the evening to end. He didn’t want it to end, really, but where would he be when it did?

_ Kissing _ , he hoped.  _ Touching, maybe.  _

He imagined both mouths, kissing his neck, and flushed.  _ Who needed wine? _

“The meal was delicious, Marcus, thank you,” Peter said, before he could say anything disastrous.

Marcus and Bennett exchanged a silent look, then looked back at Peter. “Do you want to stay the night?” Marcus asked.

Peter’s “yes” was a little too quick not to be embarrassing, but it did bring out Marcus’ dimpled grin, and Bennett touched the back of his hand to Peter’s.

“Washing up,” Marcus said, Bennett already clearing the plates onto the tray. They really were a good tag-team.

Peter got the distinct feeling that he was watching something rare as Bennett turned up the sleeves of his shirt, doing the dishes like a good husband. When Peter offered to help, Marcus swatted him away. 

“You get two chances at being a guest, then you’re stuck doing the washing up forever. Savour this,” Marcus said, keeping Peter outside the kitchen, allowed only to watch through the portal between the rooms.

Peter couldn’t decide who Marcus was teasing when he put his hand on Bennett’s back and kissed his shoulder.

-

It ended up a lot like a sleepover, watching  _ Moonlight  _ on Bennett’s laptop, Bennett and Peter sat on the bed, Marcus on a cushion on the floor, head rested against Bennett’s legs.

Bennett and Peter were holding hands, which made Marcus’ heart warm, and at some point, one of them began playing with the short hairs on the back of his head, which began a trend of stroking the back of his head, which Marcus was enjoying greatly.

Peter laughed when he saw the scene Marcus had been attempting to imitate, and laughed even harder when Bennett said “Typical, the one time you forget to play your ridiculous music.”

-

They decided on Bennett in the middle. It was a Queen (Marcus had spent too long in shitty, single beds,) with the promise that Peter would be, next time. Peter was more than happy with the arrangement. 

Lights off and loaned pyjamas on, Peter felt that creeping anxiety come back, but endeavoured not to let it dictate what had been a perfect night so far. Once he was sure that both were still awake, he swallowed and said “May I kiss you both” into the darkness.

This time, it was their responses that were fast, and the last of Peter’s anxieties washed away into the night. He pushed himself up on his right arm, and took Bennett’s hand in his left, weaving their fingers together as he kissed Bennett, ghosting “Thank you for a wonderful day,” into Bennett’s lips.

Keeping hold of Bennett’s hand, he leaned over and grinned at Marcus, who was lain back on the pillow, casual as anything. “Thank you for dinner.”

Peter’s sincerity melted some of Marcus’ smarminess, and Peter made Marcus lean up to get the kiss, Marcus’ hand on the back of his head pulling him down as they met.

Where Bennett prefered short, pecked kisses, repeated in patterns that Peter was sure meant something clever, Marcus favoured longer, deeper kisses, and Peter was happy to oblige with both.

Eventually, Bennett extracted himself from the bed, claiming to be sick of their incessant giggling, and went to his own room, leaving both with a final kiss each. 

“He doesn’t like to cuddle,” Marcus said into Peter’s shoulder, very much making use of Peter for hugs.

“As long as it wasn’t me.”

He could feel Marcus smile into his neck, and they fell asleep like that.

 

1.

Bennett and Mouse’s predecessor met them in the scout hut the next week, showing them around the building, the garden, the playing field, and the office. Power couple dynamic returning in full force, Bennett found himself organising the office that evening, while Mouse went outside to fix the old industrial-sized barbeque she’d spotted rotting in the garden. 

When they took a break to eat a dinner of vending-machine snacks and coffee, they sat outside on a bench next to a large climbing tree.

“Were you ever in the scouts?” Mouse asked, twisting a leaf between her fingers.

“I was never a child in England.” Bennett rested his head against the tree, looking up at the night sky. Clouded, but still a pretty hue. “You?”

“Brownies, for a bit, because they didn’t let little girls into Scouts. Then Sunday school, then Catholic school, then the nunnery.” 

“We’re supposed to take them camping in two weeks,” Bennett said, having only read the event’s calendar a few minutes before coming outside.

“Know much about the North American wilderness, Bennett?”

Bennett scoffed, tipped the rest of his coffee out onto the grass, and went back inside.

 

2.

Tomas was invited to a family dinner. A sunday roast, English style, Harper bragged, and Tomas accepted.

Tomas found himself watching Marcus, Peter and Bennett, and coming to a conclusion. A happy conclusion. He thought he understood their dynamic, and Harper seemed overjoyed to have three father figures.

When the three understood that he understood, and that he approved, their actions became more natural, and the dinner begun to resemble those of Tomas’ past: his sisters, his parents, his abuelas and aunts and uncles and cousins, all laughing and arguing and loving. He had missed this, missed being part of something, and hoped one day to bring his sister and Luis to this table, or to bring this new family to his sister’s, and that they would continue to grow, and to love.

Tomas, no longer considered a guest, helped Marcus put the finishing touches on dessert (a trifle, decorated in halved cherries,) in the kitchen, while the others continued their game of charades in the diner.

“I’m glad that you are happy, Marcus.”

Marcus glanced over at Tomas, then looked back down at the trifle. “But it’s not for you?”

Tomas shook his head, but bumped his shoulder into Marcus’. “No. Not right now. Perhaps, later, but I have many things to consider.”

Marcus nodded. “Just say what you’re comfortable with. All, some, nothing, I’ll respect that. They will, too.”

Tomas believed it, too. And believed that no matter what he said, nothing hard, or ugly would form between them. They were already family, and Marcus would respect Tomas, would love him regardless of what form that love manifested.

“You have no sense of personal space,” Tomas pointed out, “It would be hard to stop you.”

“I will if you want me to,” Marcus said, not meeting Tomas’ humour.

“Not yet.”

A flicker of Marcus’ grin as he bumped into Tomas’ shoulder, picked up the trifle and returned to the table.

 

1.

About two days before the camping trip, Mouse once again reminded Bennett that neither of them knew anything about America. They had already roped Marcus in as a parent-helper, and Tomas as their teacher-helper, but neither of them were particularly wild on the great outdoors either.

Which was when Bennett walked in on Peter and Harper watching a nature documentary together (on Bennett’s Netflix,) Peter talking over the voiceover with a story of when he’d seen one of the puffins waddling about on-screen as part of an expedition he’d been on as a student.

Bennett stood in the doorway for a long while listening, forgetting what he’d originally come to talk to Harper about, until Peter stopped pretending not to realise Bennett was there, and invited him to join them. 

While Harper drifted to sleep, Bennett began to form a business proposal in his mind, launching into it as soon as Harper had been safely tucked in.

“As you might remember, I have been tasked with organising this quarter’s scout camping trip.”

“I do remember,” Peter replied, only laughing a little at Bennett’s preferred way of asking for favours.

“I am in need of a field expert to assist with knowledge neither myself or the other leadership members of my current team possess. I know that it would be asking a lot, and you are not required to come…” Bennett stopped when Peter hugged him. 

“I thought you didn’t want me to come.”

“Sorry?”

“Bennett, I’m literally a scientist. I work in nature. You asked Tomas and  _ Marcus  _ to come on the trip before you asked me.”

“You  _ want  _ to come?”

“I love camping!”

Bennett looked at Peter with complete disbelief.

“You’re looking at me like you don’t believe me. Camp fires? Nature? The stars, the fresh air, the ghost stories! I love it.”

“I didn’t want to inconvenience you. It seems like I was wrong. My apologies,” Bennett said, his voice still laden with confusion. 

_ People liked camping.  _ That was new.

 

0.

“Isn’t it weird that your dad calls your other dad by his last name?”

“I didn’t really think about it, I guess. I didn’t know his name was Devon until like, last year? So not really.” Harper took her perfectly-cooked marshmallow from the fire and squished it between two crackers.

“Is Mouse really her name?” Caleb asked, leaving his marshmallow in for a second more. 

“No? I don’t think so,” she replied, not really understanding why the questions were so important, but liking being asked. 

“Is she your dad’s sister?” Truck asked, “Because he called her ‘sister’, but then she hit him.”

Verity hit Truck. “Sisters don’t hit their brothers?”

Truck conceded the point with a small ‘ow’, though he didn’t look very happy about it.

“It’s capital-S sister,” Verity said when Harper didn’t. “Like, the Sisters at school? Harper’s dads and aunt and shit were all, like, priests.” The other kids looked at Verity, who rolled her eyes. “Sorry for swearing.”

“How’d you know all that?” Truck asked, unhappiness replaced with curiosity.

“Yeah,” Harper echoed, because she knew about Aunt Mouse and Benny, but not about dad.

“Peter was telling dad,” Verity said, which was a really boring answer in the other kids’ books. They had all kind of wanted her to say that she was magic, or that she had been eavesdropping somewhere, or that she’d stolen Harper’s documents.

“But why does Peter know?” Truck asked, which Verity had to admit she didn’t know.

“Oh,” Harper said, knowing that one. “Because Peter and my dads kiss sometimes. It’s called a ‘queerplatonic, open relationship’.”

“None of those words made sense to me,” Caleb said, sliding another marshmallow onto his stick. 

“It’s like being friends,” Harper explained, “But kind of more. Like dating, but without the romantic bits.”

“Oh,” Truck and Caleb said, “Okay.”

“And gay,” Verity finished, quieter than usual. “Or, like, queer. ‘Cos it’s part of asexuality and ace people can be queer, so.”

“That’s weird,” Caleb said. “I don’t get it, but I think mums and dads are weird too, so I don’t really know. Puberty is weird.”

“Puberty is weird,” the other kids echoed, and Verity showed a flicker of a smile.

“Scout Leader Bennett is a Catholic priest, as is Mouse, Mr. Keane and Father Tomas. If they don’t think it’s weird…” Shelby touched his crucifix necklace, then touched his knee to Verity’s, returning to his silence. Verity’s smile grew more fixed.

-

Harper liked her new family. 

Mouse taught her how to fight, how to swear and how to be cool.

Marcus taught her how to cook, and tickled her, and called her funny names.

Benny helped her with her homework, and taught her how to pray.

Peter took her fishing, and helped her with her projects.

Tomas helped her sing, and listened to her when she was sad.

Harper hoped that her family would keep growing, and would always love her as much as they did.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone wants to write for this world, you have my open permission. Just let me know! bazemayonnaise.tumblr.com (y)


End file.
